Ichor
by murdc
Summary: Immortal Gods aren't cut out for worship like his.


Murdoc downed his whiskey like it was water and ran a hand over the kitchen table, absent-mindedly humming nothing to himself in a blissful, drunken haze; his mind foggy enough for plaguing thoughts to be silenced and words slurred but still coherent. Nails, long and untrimmed, dragged along a chip in the wood, gouging out soft splinters that now jutted out awkwardly, waiting for someone to lean on them. A grin made up of crooked teeth and snarled lips played on his features before the glass pulled him from his sadistic glory.

He was alone, which came as no surprise to Niccals. It was late, leaving an eerie silence over his already hunched shoulders and the reminder that he should do _this_ more often. _This_, of course being staying up past bedtime and lurking the halls that seemed so different without the echoing moans of freshly mutilated zombies to haunt them. The avoidance of his so called 'family' had_ in fact_ been an accident, but now he was up, listening to the grandfather clock he apparently owned tick itself closer to midnight, and could find no reason in stalking back to the car park he'd spent most of his day. Claustrophobia he didn't have caused a shiver and no, very quickly he decided he was more than happy in the Kitchen.

Light rain dashed against the open window and harsh winter winds pushed the rotting curtain further into Kong, a distasteful green lining the rim and lingering no higher than an inch, noticeable, but only through the eyes of a drunken God with nothing else to discern. His head tilted, the room tipping to the left with him and when he felt his weight shift, he quickly regained his naturally poor posture, sliding the half empty glass of whiskey onto the table. He'd had quite enough to drink for now.

Sloppy footing led him forward, onto an old wooden chair - perched on the opposite side of the splinters - that the previous owners had been kind enough to leave behind in their mad dash from the haunted home Murdoc now used as his headquarters. It creaked under his weight, and he grunted back to it, eyes flickering over his shoulder to watch as the legs shift under his foggy vision. A sigh, droll as his day had been escaped almost unbeknownst to himself and hands ran through the mess of hair he'd left otherwise untouched since it'd left his pillow that morning. A wave of emotion swept over him, inspiration shortly following (as it often did on such Melancholy Wednesdays) and had he not been too lazy to scour round for a pen and paper, he would've created a masterpiece.

Before he could convince himself to do an _absurd_ thing such as _move_ from the conformable position he was in, out of the corner of his eye a bright light flashed and he caught the sound of a vibration. It was quiet but there was no ignoring it, no matter how many time he rubbed his temples back and fourth. People were _frustrating_. Slapping against his knees, heavy hands pushed against the bones there that jutted out awkwardly and he moved, silently across the room, only the sound of socks padding against the heated floor signaled that the house infact held life.

The phone in question lit up with two messages, one of which Murdoc had been ignoring for days; J. Hewlett had once been persistent in his prying on the album Murdoc hadn't so much as scratched the surface of, but after a month or so of neglect, quickly he caught on that his directing skills wouldn't be required for a little while longer. Much to his own disappointment for he was constantly living on edge of Mr Niccals mailing himself to his front door once again. The production of their first album had been difficult for all involved.

The other was _lighter_ in appearance. It lacked capitals, proper punctuation and the flowery fillers so often used to avoid_ the point_. Murdoc clicked on it, a harsh white light coating him and he skimmed what little there was to read with a straight face, trying to silence the stir of emotions he forced himself to suppress since he'd been spat out onto his planet.

_Dents, 11:46PM_  
>im awake<p>

Murdoc shifted from foot to foot and then he walked, sparking up as he did and coughing blow back from his own face. 2D's text came as no surprise, he was often awake. Pain medication and malnutrition left him drowsy but he napped whenever he could. It was a common occurrence, to trip over a snoozing 2D who'd placed themselves in the middle of a hallway, legs kicked out while their arms - too long for their own good - curled under their dented head in place of the pillow everyone was quick to remind them they owned.

The walk to his room was long but soon he was wiping the palms of clammy hands on his jeans; he knocked.

"Come in."

And so, scratching out his cigarette on a wall that hadn't seen paint in_ too long_, Murdoc pushed his way inside. Ego, over-sized and looming, followed along and the room felt fuller, 2D noted. He lifted an arm and shifted it behind his head, x-ray eyes skimming over Murdoc while he smiled.

The only light in the room came from the window; a streetlamp outside reflected a sickly orange into his dank bedroom and the sound of rain echoed though its hollowness. 2D's bed, which had once been Russel's (and so was far too big for the matchstick to handle) was pressed against two walls, covers lost somewhere below it and fag burns scarring the window ledge it sat beneath. Curtains danced in the breeze that felt refreshing on skin that hadn't seen a bath in too long and the room was, other than that, peaceful. It smelt like Hell and who was Murdoc to complain.

"You text me." Blunt words that sounded like a question, not harsh but purely because they lacked any sort of emotion all together. Either he was humoring the poor boy with shitty small talk or he'd drunkenly stumbled upon some curiosity and decided to put it to good use. He walked forward, kneeling and shuffling over the bed his singer now sat cross legged on and hung and arm out the open window. Light rain caught him, and he lit a cigarette as the hair on his arms stood.

"I did."

"I know. Why?"

2D shrugged and smirked as Murdoc blew smoke into his face. They observed each other in silence. It settled comfortably but lasted no longer than it normally did, "I guess it's just one of _those_ nights, y'know? I feel _weird_."

It earnt him a nod and expected unfiltered ramblings from the man hanging half in his room, half out but nothing but a civilized chuckle passed his lips. It ripped 2D's stare from Murdoc and directed it out the window, where he watched nothing. 2D waited for him to rant like he was speaking gospel and sat ready like the good little soul he'd always been.

_'No damnation ever looked as good as he did_.'

Murdoc moved, fag flicked from his fingers, he dropped down onto 2D's sheets. Head hitting the pillow as he hummed praise to the comfort so easily found. The rich scent of butterscotch filled already flared nostrils and an arm draped to his left, lazy fingers waving 2D over to fall into place, which he did. Sliding down, his head came to rest on Murdoc's chest where he listened to the rhythmic rasp of breath and let fingers stroke the skin that led there like it was new. His head twisted and lips kissed upward, along to the man's neck where his chin rested so perfectly it was like he was made for that spot against him.

There was comfort with him. A safety that people found in locked doors or car alarms. There was, when he led up against a man probably on Satan's speed dial, a feeling of such content, just pulling he head away to look him in the eye felt was difficult.

"Are we okay?"

"Who's we?"

"We. Gorillaz. Me, you. Her. Him."

Murdoc laughed. The lines around his eyes made him look older but not wiser. The light caught him in the wrong way, it made his skin look oily and his hair greasy; teeth that bit down on his lip were chipped and stained.

"Yeah 'D. We're okay."


End file.
